


This Summer

by Rosasharon



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Angst i guess??, Flirting, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied abuse, M/M, Slow Burn, aka Alex vs. his natural tendency towards toxic masculinity and emotional distance, gotta love a story of self discovery, what if bisexual??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16788121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosasharon/pseuds/Rosasharon
Summary: Alex remembers much of his life in summers because it is easier. It is, after all, the season that seems to matter the most for him; it's when he lost the light of his life, but it's also when he gained the love of it.Let's start from the beginning.(A slow burn, artsy, anxious, mostly-light-self-discovery story. Hope you like internal monologues!)





	1. Summers I

He remembers his life in summers. It is easier, for one; clarity comes with the sun and the day. But, distinctly, there’s the smell and taste of sugar and salt. Salt from the sea, sugar from the melon, salt and sugar in the ice cream truck, salt from from trails of sweat from his brow, sugar from the birthday cake on the beach, salt in deep rivers down his cheeks, no, wait, no, that’s not right, that’s not right.

(You’re so stupid, Alex. Worthless. Weak.)

Start from the beginning: the first summer he remembers may have been fabricated. After all, he read in a magazine that you can’t remember anything before 5... or maybe it was 4? Either way, it doesn’t feel real. The ocean and sky are impossibly pink, and everything is sparkling. The tides are steady and even and it seems to be synchronized with his breath, with his mother’s breath. He feels her back rising and falling underneath his chest, and he smells it: sugar and salt. She did not wear perfume but she was always baking, and powdered sugar would reliably find its way into the folds of her flannel shirts. He sees the back of her head, her hair in a bun that is unraveling. 

Four summers ago, he realized, with dread, that he was forgetting her face. Not her appearance—he had the old pictures that Grandma had curated, after all—but her feeling, her weary crow’s feet, her big smile that cocked just slightly to the right. These were all things that he thought he had memorized out of force of habit; but one day he made himself a salted radish sandwich (one of the few things he had learned how to make much to Grandma’s chagrin) and when the juices trickled down his chin, he realized he had forgotten the sound of her laugh.

He drank a lot that night. He threw up in a trash can and fell asleep behind Dusty’s pen.

She was the strong one, the one who taught him how to throw a gridball, who took him to his first game for his 12th birthday. She put him on her shoulders so that he could see above the sea of people. And when they got back that night she defended him, made sure Alex was in his room when his father crossed his last line. He stood and stared at the door, the voices escalating, overlapping, then falling away. And she was still standing, a squat oak standing after hurricane winds.

And he thought that was it. He had missed his father when he was good (that is, when he brought him toys in a rare episode of guilt) but: That. Was. It. For weeks he did not hold his breath on his way back home and woke up late without trying to think of an excuse as to why. Yet in spite of the intoxicating relief that seemed to make the air itself foggy, she only got slower. At first he thought it was because she was run ragged leading a household by herself. He tried to help in whatever ways a 12 year old could: doing the dishes without asking, walking Dusty, offering to make (very badly done) eggs for dinner. She would smile and gently push him aside. But still, she got slower.

(God, how could she have looked like that? She lost so much weight, so quickly and you were so stupid, too weak to say goodbye, too scared to even look her in the eye but what were you afraid that you would see?)

One doctor said to him, “be strong; it’s what your mother would want.” But he knew, through tears, that this was a falsehood, because she wanted to be strong for him so that he wouldn’t have to be. The social worker said to him, “you’re going to be okay.” But how could he possibly believe that? Grandpa, normally stoic, seemed moved to talk as much as possible, asking unanswerable questions of the social worker, throwing unending commands to his wife to load the car, turn off the radio, for God’s sake, get the bed made right. And Grandma, who normally had no trouble speaking her mind, was silent the entire night, save for her kiss on Alex’s cheek that night, accompanied by a trembling: “I love you.”

A week before school started, he refused to leave his room. He cried that entire day, listening to the music box. Grandpa, driven to his wit’s end, pounded on the door and yelled, “You’re a man, Alex! Suck it up and act like it.”

And one day, the tears stopped; a vacuum swooped into the reservoir of his heart; and he did. He learned to laugh again, learned that the trick to never feeling sad was to instead feel cocky and strong, because vulnerability shrinks in the burning heat of confidence. He tried out for the high school Gridball team and made it, and he was good at it. He studied subjects with no interest, won trophies with no meaning, made friends he did not like, flirted with girls he did not care for. The tide flowed, and on the summer of graduation it ebbed; all things left town, all things faded into the past, all things forgot him. But he was still standing, clad in his grass green varsity jacket that was _proof_ of his strength. The summers passed, years after time could be measured by semesters or vacations, and he still wore the jacket. He and Haley sat on the sand one day and she asked him, in a rare moment of earnestness, why he had turned down the scholarship in the first place. He shrugged, said with a laugh that, “Northpoint sucks,” and continued to gaze to the horizon. He told her that he wanted to do things his way: that getting into professional Gridball was different, that scouts were constantly checking into local leagues and teams. 

It was a hollow explanation, and they both knew it.


	2. Spring Year 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every memory can be a summer, right?

It was the first real day of spring, the earth quenched by the last melting snows, that Haley asked him about the Farmer. “He’s so skinny,” she commented, her songbird voice intoned into a mix of disgust and curiosity. “There’s no way he’ll keep it up as a farmer. Like, do you remember who used to live there?”

Alex furrowed his brow. Some mornings, while waiting for the bus to school, he did recall a stooped, robust man, beard down to his waist, hauling goods down the adjacent road. They would make eye contact by accident and the man would wave; Alex would flash a half-cocked grin and look away, for some reason mortified. “Yeah. Some old dude.”

“Oh my god. ‘Some old dude.’ He was SO nice and he lived at the farmhouse for like, forever. He knew sunflowers were my favorite and he gave me TONS of them every year. But he died super recently, and gave the farm to his grandson. Who, by the way, works at an office at Jojacorp?” She laughed. “Like I said, there’s no way he’s gonna make it.”

Visitors from Zuzu City came to Pelican Town for every festival, habitually making asses of themselves. He considered two years prior, when he had brawled a drunken tourist with a nice haircut and a full party suit who had kicked over Dusty’s dog house. The thought of one of these polished, smug assholes settling down permanently made him shudder. “Better not,” was all he remarked.

He met him later that day. In recollection, he would recall the air as crisper than it actually was, the colors of the sky a more vivid mix of pink and indigo. He would, however, more closely approximate the nervousness of the Farmer’s toothy smile, the unease in his large eyes when Alex chose to shake his hand overly-tight. Haley was right. He was too skinny, and in his slim-fitting t-shirt and jeans, he looked far more like someone pretending to be a Farmer than the real thing. 

He had approached him while he was standing outside of Dusty’s pen. “The mayor asked me to introduce myself to the town,” the Farmer explained, as though making excuses for interrupting his reverie. “So, uh. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Alex replied. “I’ll see you around, I guess.” The Farmer nodded and faded back into the twilight. Alex forgot his name almost immediately.

A week later, he saw the Farmer talking with Clint in front of his shop across the river. He was dressed more sensibly now; hat, overalls, and boots all covered in dust, but his slim visage unmistakeable, like a willow against the sky. At one point he laughed, brightly and loudly, and Clint smiled, shaking his head apologetically before waving him goodbye and returning inside. Alex, distracted by the lazy breeze and the scent of flower petals, settled in the shade of the oak and closed his eyes, gridball in hand. 

He opened them on hearing the light rustling of grass and saw, standing in the sun (why doesn’t he just come in the shade?), the Farmer. “Hey! Alex, right?”

Alex blinked. “Yeah. Hey.”

The Farmer pointed into his basket. “You wouldn’t happen to want any tulips, would you?”

“Tulips?”

He nodded, and a slight flush came over his face. “Yeah… I’m, uh, kinda new to this whole farming thing. Did you know these have like, 0 profit margin?” He reached into his basket and instantly produced a bouquet of pink and purple blooms. “Pierre was nice enough to trade some of them for cauliflower seeds, but at this point I’m looking to give the rest away. Don’t take them because you have to or anything! You could give them to a girlfriend, or a family member, or, well, literally anyone other than me or apparently Clint…”

He was rambling. Alex chuckled. “Uh, sure. My grandma loves tulips.” Alex jumped to his feet and took the admittedly impressive bouquet. The Farmer, still in the sunlight, seemed to stare a little, as though in anticipation. Alex paused before breaking the silence. “...Right. This is cool! Thanks.” And it were as though a fire lit up in the Farmer’s eyes. Smiling and apparently satisfied, he wished him goodbye.

In the evening, he surprised his grandma with a vase of the flowers. She gasped in delight, taking a moment to clasp his cheeks and kiss the crown of his head. “I’m so lucky,” she said to nobody, still laughing as she began to prepare dinner. Grandpa, watching TV in the other room, rolled his eyes and mumbled something about allergies. 

“I got them from the Farmer,” he explained.

“Oh! He is sweet, isn’t he?” She posed the question distractedly, simultaneously procuring potatoes from the refrigerator. “Really rather hopeless, though. And big shoes to fill. I just don’t know how he expects to make a living selling flowers…”

“I think he’s switching to vegetables soon.”

“...I ought to give him something nice as a thank you. Maybe some cookies…”

She made good on this promise at the Flower Dance later that month, insisting that Alex wheel his Grandpa to the forest while she carried the elaborate assortment of five-petaled sugar cookies with both hands. His Grandma (a force of nature) pried the Farmer away from a lively conversation to present her gift. Alex watched him politely turn away from Sam and Sebastian to gush over the cookies before being caught into a hug, and then being dragged by the arm to where he and his Grandpa had stationed themselves. “Have you met the new Farmer?” She asked excitedly.

“Yeah, Grandma, you know I have,” Alex responded. His Grandpa just grunted, and the Farmer laughed, making eye contact with no one. It was clear to Alex at this point that he was, most definitely, a nervous laugh-er. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Well, I’ve never been to one of these before,” he replied. “But Evelyn was telling me you’re dancing today? I’m looking forward to it.”

Alex had been caught off guard by the unexpected and altogether strange feeling this statement evoked. And in an odd moment of entanglement, he found himself nervously laughing. 

So he stopped himself by watching Haley who, as always, was stunningly beautiful, her locks as bright as the sun itself, her figure like a floating blossom. She’d been doing the same choreography for the last five years, but damn, she looked good doing it; it was no surprise that she was crowned Queen again that year. 

She later remarked, off-hand, that he had seemed distracted during their dance. 

“What do you mean,” he asked, a touch offended.

Haley shrugged. “Not as into it, I guess.” She smirked, cocked her flowery crown to one side. “Do I need a different partner next year?”

“Nah, you know I like it!”

Haley blinked. “Why?”

“...Because I like you?”

“Oh. This again.” She took a sip of wine. “Answer’s no. Still getting over the last time we tried.”

“Come on, Hales, I meant as a friend.”

She laughed, shook her head, flashed an incredible smile. “Oh my god, what’s with you today?” 

Something in the tone of her voice had made him think the question wasn’t rhetorical. But still, he stayed silent. And the hint of a pout danced across his face when he spotted, in the corner of his eye, the Farmer, walking into the night alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! I'm weirdly on a roll!


	3. Summer Year 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game of catch; jogging; dance of the moonlight jellies.

There was an earthquake that summer. Sebastian saw it when he was taking a smoke by the lake, and he said that seeing the landslides and feeling the quake was like watching a monster awaken. (Typical Seb). In retrospect, Alex would find this description fitting, as something would awaken that day, and it started with a bad game of catch. 

It was an impulse, really, spurred by the appearance of the Farmer’s profile against the ocean. In his memory he looked like some maritime explorer: regal, stoic, hair tousled by wind, tanned skin glistening in the sun. In actuality, he was nothing else but tired, and when later asked the Farmer would acknowledge the cold hardship of his first Spring, tempered by a poor harvest and a season of eating nothing but parsnip soup. Alex looked to the ball, and then to the Farmer, and back to the ball, before saying, with a smirk, “Hey, go long!”

The Farmer did not immediately register the command, and it did not occur to him how to even move his body until Alex had swiftly jumped backwards and (come on, it was an easy catch) lightly tossed the ball in his direction. It landed squarely against his terribly positioned hands, which somehow seemed to emulate crab claws, and tumbled to the sand. 

“Nice try,” he said through a laugh. 

The Farmer chuckled, though looked more than a little embarrassed. “Sports isn’t really my thing.” He walked toward the sea, paused. “Don’t really know what my thing is these days, if I’m being honest.” He gave a weak smile, looked over at him. “What about you?”

Alex furrowed his brow and stepped forward to parallel him. “I’m going to be the first professional gridball player from Stardew Valley,” he said, matter-of-factly. “There’s no doubt in my mind.” He looked over at the Farmer whose face, oddly, was deathly serious. Alex blinked, for some reason feeling the need to explain himself. “I already led my school’s team to the regional playoffs... Now I’m just training and getting stronger so I can claim my spot on the roster of the ZuZu City Tunnelers. You just wait!”

And the Farmer, who so often smiled and laughed at the smallest provocation, who in Alex’s eyes, was eminent in his efforts to make others feel more comfortable no matter the cost, remained stone faced. “I believe in you,” was all he said.

He does not remember the rest of that conversation, but he does remember that strange, churning feeling yet again. 

Shortly thereafter, he decided to change the route of his morning jog. He rationalized it as a training modification (no matter what they say, when it comes to building endurance weight lifting’s no substitute for cardio) that happened to take him out of Pelican Town, past the bus stop, and around the base of the mountain, which in turn happened to pass by the Farm. 

It was not as though he had expected to see him at 7:30 in the AM (you had), nor that the temperature would be hot enough for him to take his shirt off 30 minutes into his run (had you?) yet both of these things had occurred by the time he had reached the surprisingly neat rows of corn in front of the farmhouse. The Farmer, himself clad only in dusty pants and boots, was busy hauling an unwieldy watering can from pond to crops. Alex slowed his pace and veered just slightly off path to approach him, shaking his head to dislodge one of his earbuds before greeting him. 

“Thanks for coming by. I don’t get a lot of visitors,” the Farmer said, cheerfully. “But really, next time send a letter! I would’ve cleaned up.” He said it while futilely trying to wipe the sweat from his torso, neck, and face with a handkerchief. His body, Alex realized, was not as weak as he had thought; lithe and narrow, yes, but more akin to a swimmer’s build than his own. Appealing, he thought, in an unexpected way. Although it wasn’t as though he hadn’t found the capability to appreciate the body of another man before. How else is one meant to improve himself? To appreciate another’s physique. To feel intrigued by the scent of honey and fresh sweat. To feel curious as to the feeling of taut skin on tight abs rippling underneath his fingers, or-- 

“You look good.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Huh?” 

“What?”

Alex coughed, only now realizing that he had said that comment out loud. Still winded, he spoke between pants. “Ah-I-ah. I mean, you look good, bro.”

The Farmer blinked confusedly. “Oh, um. Thanks.” He motioned vaguely towards Alex. “I mean, you’re in way better shape than me. As for me, I don’t think my gramps realized he was giving his farm to the miraculous living skele-twink, amiright!” He said it with a smile, but Alex didn’t laugh. The Farmer cleared his throat. “Do you... do you know what a twink is, or... anyway, do want something to drink?!” It came out as a yelp, though a exceedingly polite one.

“No! No, I’m good! Thanks.” Alex took his loose earbud in hand and pointed towards the mountain. “I should, uh. I should--”

“Y-yeah, no of course.”

“See you around.” And he continued his run, beet red and breathing heavier than ever.

He modified his jog twice a week, because it’s important to leave them wanting more--not as if he cared about if the Farmer wanted more. It was just like exercising any muscle: start with minimal resistance and move up, give it rest, then push harder. And, if Alex were to be honest with himself, with little to do in Pelican Town for years, it was fun to talk with a stranger he had no investment in. Their conversations were strained and perhaps overly polite at first, but after the first several weeks a sort of frankness seemed to take hold of the Farmer’s normally lilting voice. Humor came more effortlessly; laughter seemed less stiff; the Farmer’s posture became more relaxed, as though he were metal yielding to steady heat. 

On a certain Monday, the Farmer gave him a sizable armful of corn. Before Alex could respond, he qualified: “They’re really small... Hopefully Evelyn can do something with them.”

Alex scrutinized one of the ears. It was of normal size. “Uh, thanks. But do you think I could pick these up later? I’m halfway through my run.”

His eyes widened. “Shit!” Alex laughed involuntarily; it was the first time he had heard the Farmer curse. He took the corn back, placing it into a nearby crate. “Sorry, Alex. I forgot you actually have a reason to pass by here.”

“I don’t mind," he said, injecting a hint of humor into his tone. 

“Just a little absent minded, I guess. You know I have whole days that I don’t talk to anyone? Things can get a little lonely out here.”

“How come I never see you in town?”

The Farmer sighed, removed his gloves, wiped his brow before answering. “It, um... takes me the whole day to finish my work out here,” he explained. “Mayor Lewis tells me I’ll get better at it, and that in his prime my Grandpa was clearing the field in a couple hours, tops! But, uh. I’m still struggling with the basics.” He grimaced. “How did Gramps do it? I get exhausted by sunset.”

“You should go running with me. You gotta work on your stamina.” Alex gave a devilish grin and pointed to his own torso. “Can’t look like this without hard work.”

“Definitely not the goal.”

“Don’t be mad that I’m more cut than you.”

“God, you sound like a fitspo meme!” He said it through a laugh.

“Oh you want to hear fitspo?” Alex asked, brightly. He was on a roll and seeing making the Farmer laugh made his own smile burn brighter. “No pain, no gain! Never stop grinding! What’s YOUR excuse!”

“Seriously! How are you even real!” 

Both caught in the uproar, Alex told hold of the Farmer’s biceps. “Bro. You even lift, bro? BRO.”

He playfully motioned to wrench himself away from his grip, now laughing through tears. “No!”

“Oh, come on, you know you--” he paused, realizing that he had, inadvertently, maneuvered the Farmer just several inches away from his face. Their eyes met. The laughter stopped suddenly. And for a moment it was just goofy smiles, flushed cheeks, silence, and fast-beating hearts. Alex cleared his throat, let go. 

The Farmer adjusted his hair, looked just slightly askew. “So, uh. Feel free to drop by whenever you’re done? The corn will be waiting.”

“Yeah. For sure, for sure.” And he continued on his run.

Though Alex was never a talkative man, in their conversations that summer he found himself engrossed in absorbing information about the Farmer. He was born in Autumn, in the City, and had lived there for most of his life. He, indeed, had no idea how to farm, and was mostly learning with the help of some of the kinder townsfolk and his own research online and in books ("Your grandma's been one of the most helpful," he said once, frankly. "I think she thinks I'd starve without her... she might be right."). He had worked in IT at Jojacorp for years, but when he described, with a breathless trembling, his impromptu decision to quit and pick up his life to move it to Stardew Valley, Alex could feel the utter exhilaration like a shift of magnetism in the air. 

The Farmer had gone to college across the country, and had studied both computer science and philosophy. Later, lying in bed, Alex would envision a young Farmer adrift in a far away land, studying esoterica, his trademark laughter floating among gothic bookshelves as he pontificated with classmates who were smarter than Alex, nicer dressed than Alex, more handsome than Alex, really, overall, just better than Alex. It was a vision that made him unexpectedly irritated.

But it was not just these facts that Alex learned. More importantly were the things that he observed in wordless moments. The Farmer was unfailingly kind, but he preferred the company of his cat over any other townspeople. He preferred foods that were bitter and hardy, and never finished his entire plate. He would bite his bottom lip when he was frustrated, and would laugh at himself if he tripped and fell. He would consistently underestimate his ability, yet just as consistently expect better of himself; sometimes his too-high expectations appeared to border on masochism, but on the rare occasion when he lived up to them, his joy was positively infectious. 

On the last night of that summer, Alex and Haley sat side by side on a corner of the pier. As was customary, she forgot her jacket despite the promise of frost in the air. He leant her his. A vision of pastel blue and pink wrapped in emerald green, legs crossed and arms grasping desperately for warmth, she was, in that moment, everything about the end of summer. 

“Is it just me, or are they late?” she asked through a shiver. “I swear to God, if you didn’t insist on dragging me here every year…” Alex said nothing. He was, at that moment, focusing on a distinct point on the murky line where the black sky and the inky ocean met. She looked at him, quizzically. “You’re thinking,” she remarked.

“Huh?”

“ _You’re thinking_ ,” she repeated. “What, did you have to remake your fantasy gridball team? Trying to calculate how many burpees to do before bed tonight?”

“You ever feel…” He swallowed. “...do you ever feel like you’re learning something new about yourself, but it’s something you thought you should have known this whole time, and when you think about the fact that you should have known it you realize that, well, maybe you did know it, but you just didn’t want to admit it because it would have meant that, on top of everything, you were _different._ Different and weird and… you know?” Haley shook her head, bewildered. Alex sighed. “It’s like… it’s like, what if, like, I’m not who you think I am? And I’m not who I thought I was either? And the person I was this whole time… I don’t like that person, but at least _I know who that is.”_ He looked up at Haley. “Who the hell am I?!”

“Alex!” Haley said sharply. “Get a hold of yourself!” Alex blinked, snapped out of his monologue. “God, you sound like my sister after too many mushrooms… look, I don’t know where any of this is coming from, but seriously: stop overthinking it. You think I don’t ever have times when I don’t like myself? Or like, I don’t know, I should be doing something else with my life?” She furrowed her brow. “That is what you’re talking about, right? Whatever. The point is that we’ve known each other since high school, and, like, maybe we always thought we’d be the same, but maybe it’s a good thing that we’re changing. If we hadn’t, we’d still be dating you and you would have knocked me up by now,” she said with a snort. “Dodged a bullet there.”

Alex grinned, nudged her shoulder with his own. She smiled back. “Yeah, thanks, Hales.”

“Anytime.” And, then, the lights; a starry sky above, a starry sky below, a slowly blooming sea of white and green lights. The collective noise of gasps and “oohs” peppered the air. Haley’s visage turned ghostly in the glow that emanated from the water. “You sound like you’ve been studying, Alex.”

“Nah, nothing like that.” He gave a long shrug, accompanied by a sigh. “Talking with someone else, I guess.”

“Oh, my god. I knew it! Who is it? Is it Maru? It would explain you getting smarter.”

Alex scoffed. “I think I want my jacket back now.”

“Yeah, no, not a chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... does Alex know what a twink is??
> 
> As usual, more to come! Obviously inspired by Alex's 2 heart event.


	4. Autumn Year 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stardew Valley Fair

“You seem like someone I can trust,” he had said. “I don’t want any sympathy. If there’s one good thing about my past, it’s that it made me strong.” 

Lying in bed that night, he thought about the confession he had made to the Farmer. He had first felt giddy and lightheaded from the realization that, with the exception of Haley, he had told no one about his father. And despite having been caught off guard by the presence of the Farmer that morning, who had come into town and rounded the corner of the Saloon to deliver his harvest to Pierre, he thought that he had come off as… pretty damn strong and _pretty fucking cool._

But with the benefit of several hours of rumination, the image that stayed with him was the Farmer’s face. He first thought it to be frozen in a kind of awe, a speechless contemplation of his assertions. But on closer inspection, there seemed to be something else: skepticism? Disbelief? Not as though he thought Alex weak--but as though he thought him someone completely... unrelatable.

“Shit.”

He had thought, overall, that things were going well with the Farmer; it was a new and delirious feeling for Alex to have made a friend out of neither necessity (the gridball team, none of whom were actually likable) nor destructive lust (Haley, who was the only one with the patience to stick around). Half of this feeling was frustration at what he had missed out on for so many years, but the other half was anticipation of a world he had thought closed off to him. At one point during the summer, he had spent a particularly slow day at the ice cream stand realizing that, despite his reputation in high school as a popular jock (come on, it was other people’s label), he had never spent time with someone for the sake of spending time with them. So he fantasized utterly simplistic scenarios: an afternoon at the mall, for example, or making fun of a bad movie together while eating microwave popcorn. In light of this, Alex wondered if this latest conversation was, in fact, a step back. He resolved that the following day, the Stardew Valley Fair, would be an ideal time to re-engage the Farmer. 

The Farmer had been preparing for the Fair with feigned indifference for weeks now, and Alex had been both observer and participant of his process. “There’s no way I’ll win,” he declared to Alex every morning while warily checking pumpkins for size and color, or insisting that he try his most recent batch of fairy honey. But each time he said it with the shadow of a “what if.” It were as though speaking hope out loud would somehow materialize it, stripping it of its magic and allowing it to shrivel in the breeze like so many dried leaves, whereas burying hope under endless thin layers of self-doubt would gestate it until it was sweet and ripe for harvest.

“You know,” Alex said once, learning against the Farmer’s kitchen table, “It’s okay to say you want to win.”

The Farmer did not bother to look at him, his weary face stooped over a pot on the stove, beads of sweat accumulating on his brow. “I, uh... I know that. I just also know I have no chance.”

Someone who genuinely thought that they had no chance would not have prepared a taste testing of five different berry jams, Alex wanted to say. But instead, he said: “The only reason I ever won anything back in high school was because I KNEW I’d be able to do it. Doubt is your enemy, bro. You need to fuckin’-” He mashed his fist into his open palm and grunted for comedic effect. “-beat the shit out of it, you know?”

“Beat the shit out of my doubt… How do I do that?”

Alex shrugged. “I dunno. I’m a natural at it.” The Farmer shot him an exaggerated stink eye, eliciting a chuckle. “I’d be happy to do it for you, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, dude!” He pointed to one of the jars. “Like, this blueberry jam. Amazing, man. I love this stuff!” 

“Really? It’s not too sour?”

“Seriously? We just went over this. _Kill your doubt._ ”

“Right!” 

Alex smirked. “Salmonberry’s a little too sweet, though.”

The Farmer rolled his eyes, sighed, mumbled something about less sugar, bit his lower lip, then continued stirring the pot. Alex realized that he found his surprisingly steely dedication to be, in fact, cute. He blushed a little, but said nothing about it.

So on the day of the fair, Alex felt his heart swell when he finally saw the Farmer, effusive and poised, presenting his stand of curated flowers, vegetables, and jars to the streams of out-of-towners passing by. And Alex could not help but feel his heart sink when, at the award ceremony, Mayor Lewis announced Pierre and Marnie’s names before he called the Farmer’s. His smile, a permanent fixture in public, remained, but the slight tug at the corner of his big eyes made Alex feel flushed and nervous. 

“Poor dear,” Alex’s Grandma remarked after the ceremony, patting him on the arm. “Aren’t you friends with him? You really ought to say something nice. No one likes losing.”

It was all he needed to make good on his plan. So he left his Grandpa with her in the shade of an oak tree and wound his way through the crowd. The Farmer was in front of the general store, back turned, preoccupied with packing his things; Alex made his way towards him.

But before Alex could call out his name, he was surprised to see the Farmer get taken aside by another man. Alex stopped in his tracks. The Farmer turned, and for the first time, Alex saw his smile dissolve into an expression of shock. 

Alex remembered the man in impressions, not details: he was taller than the farmer; he wore shoes not suited for dust and a haircut unmarred by wind; and something about his grin (too charming, maybe) seemed practiced, mechanical. The man stretched out his arm, as though in friendly greeting. The Farmer scowled, said nothing. The man laughed, said something while motioning to the buildings around him. The Farmer looked down at the ground, still said nothing. The man raised an eyebrow and leaned in, as though he were trying to coax something, anything out of his company. But all Alex could see was terse, one word answers from the person that he had otherwise considered to be his most gregarious friend.

And then, the shocker: the man reached forward to grab his shoulder. The Farmer, swiftly, pushed him away. 

“Hey!” Alex shouted reflexively, a hot energy invigorating his limbs, anger closing the distance. The Farmer turned to face him, and his expression was a mix of embarrassment and relief. “This guy bothering you?”

The man scoffed. “Oh. Got the townies on your side too, huh?”

The Farmer did not bother to look at him, attention remaining focused on Alex. “I’m fine. He was just leaving.” And, after a silence punctuated by a nasty glare from Alex, the man did leave. 

It was not until an hour later, after Alex had wordlessly helped the Farmer pack his goods and accompany him to the road back to the Farm, that he said anything else about it at all.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” His voice, typically playful and smooth, sounded hoarse, apprehensive. 

Alex, confused by his friend’s newfound sheepishness, furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I just wasn’t expecting to see him, is all.” He sighed, adjusted the brim of his hat. “He’s an ex. From the City,” he explained.

“Oh. So you’re, uh…”

“Yes, Alex, I’m gay,” the Farmer said through a chuckle. Alex blushed. “Seriously, that wasn’t obvious by now? I joke about it like, every day.”

“Y-yeah! No, that’s cool! It’s cool, I’m cool with it. You’re cool. It’s all cool.”

The Farmer smirked. “ _Cool._ Anyway, things didn’t go well between us. He was…” The Farmer swallowed. “...well, it’s not important. But you should know that work wasn’t the only reason I left Zuzu.” The shakiness in his voice belied a pain that Alex recognized. “Alex, that guy can be dangerous. If you ever see him again, please stay away from him. I couldn’t forgive myself if you got hurt because of me. Can you promise me that?” Alex’s countenance became stern, and he nodded. His clenched fists, though, seemed to counter that this were a promise he would ever be able to keep. “Still. Thanks. I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come. You’re… a great friend.” 

The heat in his body, his tightened fists, were overcame with a sudden, cool tingling. He smiled. “Yeah. No problem.”

“It actually reminded me that I wanted to apologize to you.”

“Huh?”

“Do you remember, yesterday, when I overheard you talking to Dusty?”

Alex cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Listen, I didn’t--”

“I think I might have come off as cold. Or, I don’t know, like I didn’t care about what you told me.” Alex took a moment to look over at him. Although he was not completely sure in the dimming twilight, he thought that he could see small sparkles of moisture in his eyes. “But the truth was that I was a little jealous. You’ve… gone through so much pain, and it’s only made you stronger. When I think about my life, every bad thing that happens just feels like another weight to carry around, and I’m tired. _So tired._ I mean, I’m 24 years old but I'm not getting wiser or better... in fact, every year it just seems to get harder, you know? I guess what I’m trying to say is: I wish I could be more like you.”

He wanted to confess, in that moment, the truth. How, perhaps, his strength was not in emotional fortitude, but in an unwavering, faithful worship of an illusion despite the lie at its core. How the Farmer’s description of weakness was stronger than anything he had ever done. How all it would take is the sound of a music box to make everything crumble again, to make the smell and the taste of tears and hospital pudding and the feeling of waste and decay come back (oh God no not here, not now).

He did not say any of those things. He did say, with some befuddlement, “Aren’t you 23?”

“What?”

“I thought I was two years older than you.” He paused, only retrospectively realizing how the closeness with which he kept track of (and weighed the importance of) this information may have seemed odd. 

“It’s my birthday.”

Alex stopped in his tracks. The Farmer walked several steps ahead of him before turning back to wait for him. “It’s your birthday. Today.”

“Yeah, why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why!’ Dude, we gotta celebrate! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Prepping for the Fair kept me busy… and, well, I thought that maybe I would mention it if I won.” He shrugged. “Obviously that didn’t work out. But besides: it’s not like I’d want a party or anything. If I’m being completely honest, you’re kinda my only friend out here anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“Why do you sound so surprised!” he laughed.

“Because you’re like, the nicest person I know!”

“Oh. Thanks.” 

“Yeah.”

Lost for words now, they continued onward. When they got to his front door, the Farmer invited him in; something compelled Alex to decline. But instead, he put the Farmer’s baskets down and, in a swift motion, swept him into a hug.

In recollection, it was a prickly affair; he felt his small body briefly stiffen in his arms before it, reluctantly, relaxed. Perhaps caught by the abruptness of the hug, the Farmer did not return it, but Alex did distinctly feel a quickening in his breath and heart rate, and caught a hint of his scent: honey and earth. And the moment that Alex realized that it had lasted one second too long to be an embrace between just friends, he patted his back, let go, and said, simply, “Happy birthday.”

“You too.” His eyes widened. “Uh, no, I mean, thanks! For everything.”

Alex guffawed, gave a salute goodbye, and dug his hands in his pockets before heading back down the road, feeling exhilaration blowing on the cool wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such short chapters--I always envisioned this story as being rather stream of consciousness, and I write it mostly on a whim! At one point I thought I would only write about summers... obviously I got bored of that pretty quickly. More to come!
> 
> I really adored Alex's heart events and I really can't resist integrating them into this retelling of the player/Alex relationship! But just like all the other events in the game, I do like to imagine them as being part of a greater narrative of a whole lot of other unspoken moments... do you all feel the same way?


	5. Winter Year 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cold snap.

Alex watched Haley from solid ground while she made her stand on the dock. Camera in hand, she was like a lighthouse bundled in a dusty rose pea coat, solitary and tall against the frozen white background of the lake and woods.

The flashes of light seemed, to Alex, excessive given the whiteness of their surroundings, but Haley insisted on keeping it on. “The falling snow will look like it’s glowing,” she explained, before setting off a flash, camera pointed at the lake. 

“You’ve done it before?”

She shrugged. “I read about it online.” Another flash. “Guess I’ll find out when I develop them.” Alex sighed, the steam of his breath lingering in the air. He dug his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, frowned, made any number of uncomfortable motions and sounds before she said, without bothering to look at him, “You know, I can do this myself.”

“Hey, I’m enjoying the view.”

Haley raised an eyebrow. “Oh my god. Can’t we just have a regular conversation for once?”

“Y-yeah. Sorry.” A long pause. Another flash. “So, uh, what do you wanna talk about?”

“Oh my GOD.”

“What?”

“I dunno, Alex, just talk to me about something other than how hot I am.” She threw a look over her shoulder. “I already know that.”

Alex shrugged. “Uh… seeing anyone new?”

She laughed. “Yeah, because we get a lot of new faces around here. Like what, I’d go after the Farmer or something?”

“Would you?” he asked, a little too quickly.

“No.” Flash. “You sure have been hanging out with him a lot, though.”

“I’m not.” It came out half-hearted, said through a shivering breath. “I just jog by his place a lot. No big deal.”

“Why would it be a big deal?”

“It wouldn’t! And it doesn’t matter, it’s not like I’ve seen a lot of him this Winter.” Indeed, it were as though the day after the first snow fell the Farmer had disappeared, leaving behind nothing but frosted rows of withered cornstalks. Alex did not typically dare to jog in the horrid cold, but that year he thought he would keep the routine up anyway, digging out winter leggings and undershirts he had not used in years. The first morning he tried was wet and miserable, made more disappointing by the Farmer’s absence. The second morning, the same. And the third, still finding the Farm empty, he felt his disappointment eating itself whole, becoming an emptiness that instead left room for an incongruous resentment. That night he put the leggings away and did not go on any more jogs. 

He speculated that, spurred by the nonexistent harvest of the season, the Farmer might have returned to the city. But the chicken coop was still cleaned and stocked with hay, and his cat well fed. He then wondered if he was instead spending the days foraging in the Woods, subsisting off meager sales of holly and winter roots; it was part of the impetus for his insistence on keeping Haley company that morning. But other than Leah on her morning rounds, the Woods were devoid of life. 

Flash. “Hey, did you know I slept with Abigail once?”

Now a long and full silence, punctuated by two camera flashes. Alex cleared his throat. “Uh. What?”

“Yeah, it was at my high school graduation party, do you remember that?”

“I remember you having one,” he said, as he could recall no explicit detail about that night other than the nauseous body memory of too much tequila.

“Well, like, I was pretty trashed and already in pieces after our third break up, and so after I made out with Jason K I ended up walking into the woods behind my dad’s house and puking into a creek? And I realized that someone was holding back my hair for me and I looked up and it was Abigail! Who, you know, was like a WAY weirder goth at that time.” She shivered. “No one looks good with septum piercings. Anyway, she stayed with me that whole night and was SO nice for like no reason because all I remember was being kinda shitty to her, you know? We spent the rest of the night in my room while I sobered up and we were playing some dumb card game that she, like--oh my God, she just _carries around with her_! And at some point…I dunno. It was weird. Good-weird, I think. Scary, but it’s not like I didn’t want to because it was also exciting. It was actually pretty great.” She cushioned this with a soft giggle. “But I also kinda fucked it up. She called and I never picked up. She sent me letters and I never responded. A couple of weeks later I saw her in town and we didn’t even make eye contact. It’s been that way since.”

“Yeah…” An uncomfortable stirring made itself known in Alex’s chest while certain connections tried to synapse in his head. “...why are you telling me this?”

Haley stared at him, her normally bright face turned blank. “No reason, Alex.” She held her camera up to her face and snapped a picture of him. The flash was blinding.

It was not until later that week that Alex would see the Farmer again. After the earthquake, the path to the mountain had finally cleared and the Spa had reopened. And as his morning jogs were on hold, Alex decided to move his daily strength training to the Spa’s blissfully empty weight room. Small and filled with steam and the faint smell of chlorine, it felt like a hint of Summer enchanted the tiled walls. It was, for his purposes, perfect. Stripped down to his shorts and imbued with heat and sweat, Alex was beginning to feel alive again during what was normally, to him, a season of stasis.

In the afterglow of a particularly intense session, it did not occur to Alex when entering the typically empty locker room that one of the neighboring showerheads was on. And so when he entered the showers without clothing he was shocked to find that he was far from alone. Wreathed in mist, back turned, was the unmistakably thin figure of the Farmer, who himself was naked and and at that moment engrossed in the stream of hot water. 

Alex remembered from biology class that the body mediated surprise in four ways: Fight (a go-to), flight (also, unfortunately, a go-to), and fucking (a confusing topic at this time) were foremost in his memory. But as for the fourth, he had never understood how it could happen to anyone until that very moment, when he, quite severely, froze. It were as though the steam around him had coalesced into granite, and he recalled an inability to breathe, move, speak, or (most importantly) look away. 

The Farmer looked… different. Months of farming had solidified his body, but his musculature did not emulate the aesthetically sculpted curves of his own features, nor the stout, bulky strength of the bodybuilders he had adorned the walls of his room and locker with. Instead, his thinness had hardened into a discrete and powerful sharpness in the lines of his deltoids, biceps, and trapeziuses. His shoulders tapered gracefully into the V-shaped narrowing of his waist. And below his hips, his glutes-- 

(holyshitmandoNOTlookathisassyoucantjuststandhereandstareatadudelikeacreepjustsayhiandmoveonMOVEONbutwhatifhesavoidingmenotlikeicarebuthemightthinkimstalkinghimbutSERIOUSLYWHYTHEFUCKISHEHERE)

\--the Farmer turned, water still streaming down his body. Alex, still frozen, darted his eyes up his face. The Farmer, processing the scene in a half second that felt like eternity, dropped one hand to cover himself, and used the other to wipe the water from his eyes. “Alex!”

The sound of his voice snapped him back the moment, his joints loosening. He let a conspicuous swagger take control of his body and, with a smirk, went to the neighboring shower. “Hey,” he intoned, the simplicity of his speech a veneer covering the chaos of his mind. He turned the showerhead on, dipping his hands into the water as it warmed. “You, uh, don’t have to cover yourself. We’re both dudes.” The Farmer, still snapping out of his speechlessness, just nodded, turning back to face the showerhead and wall, though rotated just several degrees away from his company. Alex cleared his throat, sniffed, and entered the water of his own shower. 

Standing several feet away from the Farmer, completely naked and soaking wet, Alex would recall two equally powerful but complementary streams of thought. One was focused downwards, at his own body, and the realization that he had never been in a situation where had felt such a powerful and conspicuous need to hide his own arousal. A brief and fleeting question occurred: 

(1) Is this how all gay guys feel in the locker room? Countered by:  
(1a) But _I_ never feel this way in the locker room. In turn, countered by:  
(1b) _Then why am I feeling this way in the locker room?!_

The altogether confusing nature of his questioning was, indeed, enough to control his bodily instinct. 

The other thought was the frank realization that he had missed the Farmer: that, other feelings aside, the Farmer made him smile without inhibition; that each fact learned about the Farmer felt like a treasure unearthed from warm sand; that the weeks without seeing the Farmer had seemed unforgivably frigid. 

“So, um, how are you, Alex?”

Alex shrugged. He reached for the soap dispenser and began rubbing suds into his shoulder, the bubbles dancing on his sore arms. “I hate Winter.”

“Really? I don’t mind it. But, well, maybe I just like not having to take care of the crops. Not to mention the chickens love Marnie’s heater more than they like me…”

“Where’ve you been, anyway?” 

The question came out angrier than he had intended. But it belied the fact that, in a way, he was angry: that the real question he wanted to ask was, “Why would you do this to me?”

The Farmer, obviously still spooked, gave a trademark laugh. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

An odd response. Alex turned towards him and squinted through his curtain of water. “Try me, bro.”

The Farmer paused; Alex followed his eyes and realized he was staring at his chest. More than a little satisfied with himself, Alex gave a small flex to his pecs and abs before his response. “Well, um. I’ve been in the mines.”

“What?”

“Yeah! Seb was showing it to me earlier. You can find a lot of gems and other stuff to sell down there. Since I’ve had more time to spend away from the farm, I’ve been going every day.”

“Dude, what the fuck? There are monsters down there.”

The Farmer smiled wryly. “I’m actually not that bad with a sword. I can handle a couple slimes on my own.”

“You go alone? What if something happened to you?”

“Ha! You’d be the only one to notice!”

This, Alex did not find particularly funny. “Did Seb put you up to this or something? He’s such a fucking weirdo.”

He frowned. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s true, man. He’s a loser, and most of the guys in this town are losers…” Alex paused to rinse himself off. “...you know, when I go pro, you’re welcome to hang out with me in the City instead. It’d be way better than going down into the fucking mines every day.” 

He had meant it as a half-joke, but to his dismay, the Farmer did not laugh. “He’s not a loser,” he said, frankly. 

“What, are you into him or something?

“Alex...”

“I’m just kidding.”

“No, never mind.” The Farmer mumbled. But he followed up. “I don’t get why you trash everything about Stardew Valley.”

Alex blinked. “I don’t.”

“You just did.”

He resisted the urge to be obstinate, answering, “It’s boring, that’s all.” Though, this wasn’t quite all. Stardew Valley was not boring in the sense that there was nothing to do. But it was overly tranquil, sedating, nostalgic in a fuzzy way, like living in a vacation remembered from years and years ago. And being a part of the fabric of the place meant being sewn into it. You cannot move if you are sewn in place, and for that, Alex was resentful.

But, he had chosen to stay here. And while he had a different rationalization as to why every time he was asked, the truth was simple: he, in the face of surprise manifesting itself as an offer from an agent from Northpoint College, froze. So who else was there to hate but the town he had chosen in fear? If he did not, it meant hating the (stupid; worthless) one who he knew was really responsible. 

In this moment, he was reminded of all of these things. And the brief turning of the knife back onto himself _hurt._ “You’re not from here, dude,” he admonished. “You don’t know what it’s like. Don’t act like you do.” 

The Farmer nodded, his frustration quickly melting into submission. “Ah-yeah. You’re right. Sorry.” Rather abruptly, he turned the water at his faucet off, shaking the moisture off his body while heading to the locker room. Alex, now recovering from his spiral of emotions and realizing how harsh his words had sounded, gave himself one last rinse before pursuing.

The Farmer was already slipping his pants on by the time he joined him. A tense silence laced the post-shower humidity of the air. It was not until Alex had fully dried, and the Farmer had fully dressed, that anything was said at all; Alex, digging in his locker, said it as a sheepish aside thrown over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Alex. I was out of line.” Alex could hear the smile in his voice, though he did not think that he deserved it. “I’ll see you around.”

“Y-yeah. See you.” It was all he could say, and he said it without looking at him. After all, how does one tell a friend that you have known for less than a year that you miss him? That you want to see him? That you do not know who you are anymore, that you may have never known, but that he might hold the answer? That you are sorry, not for a clumsy statement, but for thinking of placing this burden onto him, when his only crime was a smile, a laugh, a bouquet of unprofitable tulips, an impulse to run away not unlike his own? 

He turned, hoping to bring himself to yell something, anything, before the Farmer left the building. Instead, he was caught off guard by the small box left on the weight room bench, wrapped in forest green paper and a gold ribbon. Alex heard the door to the spa open, then shut.

A week later, on the night of the Feast of the Winter Star, after his grandparents had gone to bed and he had finished a cup of hot chocolate, Alex opened the box in the darkness of his room. It was a small, nearly perfectly spherical gemstone. It was transparent and the color of sea glass, but for a slice of an inclusion buried within that, when turned, shimmered aquatic colors in the moonbeam streaming through his window: Aquamarine. 

He listened to the music box that night, and cried before he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new years, everyone! Alex needs to work on emoting, but really, who doesn't? Still, I'm sure happier days await us in Spring. 
> 
> Y'all heard there are new updates planned for Stardew Valley?? I honestly thought things would be done after multiplayer was released but I'm excited! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! More to come!


	6. Summers II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

(Do you know what it means to love?

The answer, of course, is yes, though you have forgotten it somewhere along the way. Love is a skill that, when given and received with regularity, is an effortless habit. But you are rusty and out of practice. You learned that love is not laughter, but tears; not conversations, but prayers with no answer; in short, it is grief. 

So you have never told anyone that you loved them again. Not girlfriends no matter how close they were, not Haley, radiant and funny, not Grandpa, not even Grandma, who you do, indeed, love. You think it often, and the urge to say it lingers on your tongue every night before she goes to bed. But to speak it out loud feels like a lie. You have forgotten the quality of love. You have confused it with a longing, ravenous despair, whose only element in common is hunger.

And to be a man, well, that is to shake off love, to inoculate yourself from it with its more familiar brothers: strength; lust; confidence. If you had learned anything from your father it is that love is weak. It is neither weapon nor shield, it cannot protect the people who matter. It is a passive force more akin to gravity, driving a cruel impulse to seek closeness when you are alone. 

But you forget that gravity is omnipresent. It is constant. It rakes great oceans across the earth, pulls clouds to the ground. All actions are either opposed to it or at its mercy: standing, falling, dancing, running, building, destroying, growing upward, dropping dead. You, in fact, have built your life against it, every weight lifted and every gridball thrown a rebuke. You think that glory will allow you to overcome the world. But gravity wins in the end, and it always will.

So it may help, perhaps, to think of your eighth birthday, when your mother treated you and your friends to an ice cream cake at the beach. The taste escapes you now but even today you can still envision the swirls of pink, ivory, and tangerine, as though the dawn had woven itself together and placed itself on your plate. That moment felt like the _greatest_ moment. And then, you dropped it. Your slice tumbled in the sand and it were as though a dark shroud had fallen. You cried and cried, and try as she might, despite the promise of other slices yet untouched, your mother could not console you. 

Since then, you cannot stomach cake without the memory flashing back. But for the first time you focus now on a different part of the memory; not the cake, or the utter hopelessness of its loss, but of your mother, who spent the rest of that day with your face in her lap. Despite the frustration in her voice, she knew that this meant life and death to an eight year old, and so she stayed. In the end, the tears passed. The sun set. And even though the world had ended, you must remember that the next day it did not.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I'm still chugging along here and there's plenty of story left to go, haha. In the meantime here's another little flash-backy-artsy interlude. Alex has... a lot to deal with!
> 
> Your kudos and comments are so sweet and I appreciate every one! It means a lot given that I'm a bit of a novice when it comes to writing, ha.
> 
> More to come!


	7. Spring Year 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession; an apology; a dance.

It was that spring when he confessed.

Not to the Farmer, of course, for at that time he had not intended to do so to anybody other than himself. It was a realization that occurred to him in the new year when he had found himself, during a workout recovery, listlessly staring at the box he had received at the Feast of the Winter Star. He had not opened it again since that night, as though doing so may let some arcane magic escape from the crystal inside, spellbinding him to think only of the Farmer and his absence. Instead, the box sat undisturbed on his nightstand, the same place he kept all items required on awakening and slumber. 

Covered in sweat and sore all over, he was neither invigorated nor satisfied as he typically was post-workout. He was, however, contemplative in the way that only someone who is half present in their consciousness can be, and in that moment he recalled that he had actually experienced echoes of this feeling before. With a mousy math tutor that he had been inexplicably drawn to, for example, or the eccentric sister of a teammate of his. These were people that he enjoyed, laughed with, learned from, who even understood him on some level, but also people that consorting with, in any capacity, would send the overall message that he was not so dissimilar to them: flawed, bizarre, hurt, weak. Each time, he did the social calculus, and each time, the math played out. So before things developed further, he shut them out. 

But something was different. Perhaps, in the dreary haze of Stardew Valley, he had grown indolent, for he had not shut him out. And now he was paying the consequences.

One morning, he and Haley were gathered on the floor of her living room, polaroids scattered on the ground like an otherworldly forest floor when he asked, abruptly, “why did we break up?”

Haley did not even bother to look up, engrossed in comparing two photos side by side. One was Cindersnap Woods in Autumn, blazing and alive, the other of the sky and ocean in Summer, celestial blue. “Um… which time?”

“I don’t know. I guess the time you said that I was always going to be alone?”

She chuckled, involuntarily. “Oh my God, did I say that?”

“...Yeah?”

Finally looking up from the photos, she smirked. “I can’t believe you’re just asking me this now.”

“You know what, never mind.”

“No, I can tell you! I just don’t get why you’re interested, you know? Like, it’s in the past, I forgave you, we’re friends...”

“I think I like the Farmer.”

Haley paused, her eyes widened. “Oh.” A long quiet and stillness, as though she were waiting for something, anything else to happen other than her breaking it. But all she got was Alex’s face, dead serious. “So, you’re gay?”

The question was a knife plunged deep into his chest, years of learned reflexes to run away from this, to fight this, bubbling up, bringing a tingling to his skin and a twitch to his fingers, before being forcibly swallowed down. “I, uh. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Kinda, yeah!”

“Hales, I don’t know, okay? I-i-i-it’s not like I’ve felt this way about dudes before, and I’m kind of freaking out about it!”

“So, like, you’re bi?”

“I don’t know!”

She blinked. “That’s what I am. Bi, I mean.”

“Oh.” Then, a symmetrical quiet and stillness. “Wait, really?”

“Oh my God, yes,” she said through a laugh. “I mean, I kinda thought you might be a homophobe so I never mentioned it to you. But seriously, you didn’t get the hint when I was talking about Abigail?”

He furrowed his brow. “Why did you think I was a homophobe?”

”Well, you were never like, Casey Williams or Eric F bad. But, like, think about all your friends in high school. And all the girls you treated like shit--”

“I didn’t-”

“--you did. You had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one.” She sighed, dropped the photo she was holding; the ruins of the community center, moon peeking through a hole in a dilapidated ceiling. “Alex, you wanna know why we broke up? You were self absorbed. You were so busy trying to be the hotshit gridball captain that nothing else mattered. You spent more time in the gym than you did with me or any of your ex girlfriends combined. Like, we were all just props to you! I broke up with you for good because I was tired of you treating me like I wasn’t my own person. Like I was part of _your image_. I mean, think about it; we didn’t actually become friends until waaay later… you never bothered to learn a thing about me while we were dating.” 

Alex’s frown deepened. “So it’s that bad, huh?”

“Come on, you asked.” She picked a photo out and handed it to him. It was one of the ones they had taken together that Winter; Alex standing in a swirl of snow. It did not look as radiant as she had promised. Instead, it seemed to reflect the light away from him, shrouding his green silhouette in a strange, sparkling darkness. He tossed it aside. “For the record, I did think that something was going on with you two. But I was expecting more of a fuck-buddy situation, you know?”

He rubbed his face in his hands and leaned back against the sofa. “Shit, Haley. I think I fucked it up with him…”

“Lemme guess. You were getting along, he made you feel loved and appreciated, you were going to tell him how you felt, but as soon as you realized that your feelings were serious, you shut down and pushed him away.”

“No, that’s-” he stopped. “-yeah. Yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh my GOD. Alex, this is classic you, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re both guys.”

He continued staring at the ceiling. “What does it have to do with?”

“I don’t know! Your messed up issues? I’m just your friend, I’m not your therapist or whatever.” They sat in silence for a little while, Haley sorting her photos with some sense of finality. Two piles: 5 in the keep pile, 31 in the discard. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Alex shook his head. “I don’t know.” And they left it at that. 

What he did know was that he had to have a conversation. For Alex, the idea of planning an emotional or social response was utterly foreign. Feelings did not require the same tactics as, say, a gridball offense, nor did an apology require practice and training. But in the wake of his disheartening talk with the Farmer that Winter, it was beginning to dawn on Alex that, perhaps, the blame had never lay on others for their overemotional state (“Why won’t she just chill and stop riding my ass?” was a common refrain from peers), but on his own emotional paralysis. And with that realization came the lifting of a veil, patterns revealing themselves from seasons past; hearts broken, friendships ended, opportunities for genuine connection furrowed before they had a chance to germinate. He was not the seed unearthed at someone else’s whim; he himself was the plow hand. Maybe, he wondered, he could be better.

(Or maybe you’re nothing but a piece of shit.)

He would be forced to confront this responsibility later that season when, during a workout session in his room, he heard the front door open, followed by the cheerful mumble of voices in the kitchen. Shortly, there was a knock: “Alex, you have a visitor,” his grandmother announced.

Assuming it was Haley, Alex did not even bother putting down the free weights. “Yeah,” he yelled through huffs, “come in.”

The door creaked open slowly, and it was that heralding sign of unease that warned Alex who was actually there. The realization came too late; flustered, he dropped the weights at the same time that the Farmer, wide eyed, entered. 

“Oh,” Alex said, uneasily. “Hey. I was, uh, just, doing my daily strength training routine.”

The Farmer smiled, nodding slowly. “I can see that.” He closed the door behind him. “Is it a bad time?”

“N-no! No, it’s cool.” A long pause, Alex ostensibly catching his breath, the Farmer still standing in front of the entrance to his room. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “That I have no shirt on.”

“Yeah, why are you always shirtless when we talk?”

He had asked it as a joke but Alex could not help but feel, rather conspicuously, nude. “I dunno man,” he said through a chuckle. “I guess I’m just kinda self-absorbed?”

The Farmer raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had expected Alex’s typical reply of a mockingly grandiose self-sell. Or, he had sensed that the term had been borrowed from someone else. “You are?”

Alex blinked; he was getting off track. “Uh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” The Farmer frowned, nodded. “I’ve started to realize that… well, that I’ve been really rude towards you in the past. You know, about going pro and all that.” He looked down at this feet, swallowed. “I guess I might not actually be cut out for professional sports… maybe it was just a childish dream, you know?”

“Alex...”

“...Anyway. I want to apologize to you for bragging and being annoying about it.” He looked up again and met the Farmer’s eyes; his face was cold, steely. The expression hardened his own resolve. “I appreciate that you stayed friends with me through all that.”

The five seconds that the Farmer spent absorbing what he said felt, to put it simply, grave. Later, Alex would realize it was his first attempt at a real apology; one that was not, “I’m sorry you were offended,” or, “I’m sorry you couldn’t lighten up.” He would, rightfully, thank Haley for this new development, but in that moment of silence he could not help but curse her. He had, in effect, exposed his vulnerability, left his flank wide open for attack, scorn, the inevitable end.

But instead something quite unexpected happened. The Farmer smiled. “And to think I had come to apologize to you,” he said, a slight wobble in his voice.

“What?”

The Farmer sighed. “I don’t want you to give up on your dream, Alex. And I never wanted to come off like I was disrespecting you or anything you’ve gone through. I would never hurt you like that... You’re my friend too.”

The two stared at each other. And, like two fires ignited from the same spark, they simultaneously broke into laughter.

The Farmer wiped his face, grunted into his cupped hands. “God, we’re stupid!”

Alex, still guffawing, took a moment to plop into the chair at his desk. “Dude. You’re not stupid. Get at _my level_ , then we’ll talk.”

“Oh, this is a competition too?”

“Yeah and I’m winning bro. Get some!”

They went on like that deliriously, and it were as though their laughter had blown away a thick fog. Alex would remember that afternoon in degrees of hurt cheeks, loss of breath, tingling in his chest, pain in his stomach that accompanies a desire to cry. The Farmer settled down on the floor of his room, back propped up by Alex’s bed; Alex put on a loose tank top. They were, physically and emotionally, exhausted. 

“But I’m serious,” the Farmer had said, when the laughter had finally ebbed. “You can’t give up.”

Alex shrugged. “I haven’t. But I guess I just feel like I’ve been missing out on other shit in life.”

“Like...?”

Alex eyed the Farmer with a suspicious intensity. The Farmer blinked, cocked his head. Alex cleared his throat. “Uh. Well, like books, I guess.”

“Books.”

“Y-yeah!” He motioned to the bookshelf next to his desk. “I haven’t read a single one of those books. What does that say about me, you know?”

“We all have strengths and weaknesses. You’re way more talented than me at gridball.”

“Does that even matter though? If I’m not good enough to be pro it doesn’t mean anything. Meanwhile I can’t even have a normal conversation with people if it’s not about sports. And then I meet people like you and I’m just reminded how... stupid I am.”

The Farmer’s face softened. “Don’t talk about my friend like that.”

It was an odd sensation to be defended from oneself. But it made Alex smile anyway. “I’m kinda used to it,” he remarked. 

“Well... if you’re really so boring to talk to, why do I still bother hanging around?”

Alex smirked. “‘Cause I’m so fine.” As though it were a reflex, the Farmer immediately reached behind and above himself, grabbed a stray pillow, and hurled it at his laughing companion. “Damn, _now_ you learn how to throw!”

“I’m serious!” 

“I don’t know. You’re super nice?”

The Farmer rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. You’re more interesting than you think. Better than you think. And before you argue with me, maybe it’s just hard to see because you’re so used to thinking of yourself as stupid or no good or worthless. You think that’s the only logical explanation for all the bad things that ever happened to you. But the truth is that sometimes, bad things just happen; _bad people_ happen.” The Farmer gulped and a shiver seemed to pass through him. “And it’s tempting to listen to what they say because... because you think they know you better than you do. You think that you are broken and need someone else to put the pieces back together. And you think that you wouldn’t be anywhere without them. That all of it makes sense. But it doesn’t. Does it?”

Alex did not answer immediately, and his pause was not out of uncertainty, but out of the notion that the Farmer seemed to have been asking it of himself. “No,” he eventually said, and he met eyes with the Farmer as he said it, “it doesn’t.”

The Farmer, rather suddenly, gave his nervous laughter. “Sorry! That got weird.”

“You’re good.” Though really, Alex had wanted to thank him, praise him, reach over and hug him, because in that moment he had felt a little less alone. He did none of those things. But he was able to say, in an uncharacteristically little voice: “But I think I get what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” the Farmer said with a nod, “you do.”

Alex leaned back in his chair. “You know, I won’t give up. I’ll crack open one of these books, and someday we’ll have dinner and discuss--” he flashed his hands with a faux mysticism and intoned, “-- _philosophy._ ”

The Farmer burst laughing. “Oh my God, please don’t!”

“Come on, didn’t you study that?”

He shrugged. “I mean, yeah. My thesis was an interrogation of sin and redemption utilizing a post-structural feminist reading of the first book of Yoba.” Alex blinked. “It sounds complicated but it was basically just a big book report.”

“Uh… what was it about?”

“You know the first verse of the first book when God casts the seeds of the fruit upon the earth? But the seeds don’t grow in the shade of the world vine, so God is forced to separate them, putting oceans between them, in order for them to grow.”

“Yeah.”

“What does that story mean to you?”

“I guess that the continents were separated for a reason.” He furrowed his brow. “And… also that people are apart for a reason. That we need space from each other to grow. The church that my mom used to take me to said that it was a part of growing up and--” a brief catch in his throat. “--and leaving your parents.”

“Right! Exactly! But did you know that a lot of scholars understand that phrasing differently. The original script that was later translated as ‘grow’ in most modern editions of the book of Yoba is actually a homograph for the verb, ‘yearn,’ like yearning for the sun. So an alternate reading recontextualizes that verse to describe not one of independence, glorifying solitude, but one that recognizes our _yearning for contact,_ our desire to be together. That the only way that we can survive is by…” the Farmer reached his hands out and intertwined the fingers together, like roots entangling. “...finding each other. Whether it’s across oceans or land. We have to find each other.” The Farmer stopped, realizing belatedly that the pace of his voice had sped up dramatically. “Sorry. That was my first chapter. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” And while the finer details of the Farmer’s explanation escaped him, the broad strokes, in fact, hit home.

While Alex had little in the way of religious experiences in his life, he would always reminisce with a kind of sacred pondering about the Flower Dance later that Spring. It were as if something alien had taken possession of his body when he rose from his seat next to Haley, yet again crowned Queen. She called out to him, but he did not answer. The pop music like a hymn; the chill air a sanctified breath; the cheap string lights across the poles divine; cutting through the crowd to find him was like approaching an altar. 

He did not recall what he asked the Farmer, but does remember the smile on his face and the faint blush on both their cheeks, glowing like the hint of shepherd’s delight in the sky. He reached a hand out, bowed slightly in a parody of the stiff motions of the formal Flower Dance. The Farmer paused, laughing, unsure if this gesture were a joke or something more serious; deciding that he did not care, he took it. They danced, badly, far apart but clearly engaged, bliss and self-deprecation and thick, heady anxiety connecting the air between them. Haley would later describe it as “dorky, but in a cute way.” His grandma would pretend not to notice. But Alex would recall that, in that moment, he decided with utter certainty that he would tell the Farmer the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Hope 2019 is going well. This chapter... was hard to write! I don't know why exactly but it sure felt off my game. Obviously Alex's 5 and 6 heart events have kind of... melded into one here. But did anyone ever think his 5 heart event was a little extra? I mean, come on, you gotta know what philosophy is, dude!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	8. Summer Year 2 (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letter writing; a template for success; a day at the beach.

> _To my love:_
> 
> _You are the world to me; my sun, my moon, my stars. My heart aches for you as the sea pines everlasting to the shore. A night without you by my side would be better sent in the inky abyss of space itself, so deep is my desire, so cold is my skin without your touch. To be held in your arms! To be yours forever more! I throw myself down at your knees, just for a taste of your salvation._
> 
> _Yours, your admirer._

Alex furrowed his brow. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a little extra, but you said you had trouble saying your feelings or whatever, right?”

“There’s no way that this was you.”

Haley raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, obviously. I asked Elliot to draft it.” She giggled. “He’s such a nerd. You know he uses coconut oil to condition his hair? Not like I care. My hair’s better than his anyway... Right?”

“I can’t give this to him,” Alex declared, handing the letter back to her. “It doesn’t sound anything like me!”

“You don’t want to sound anything like you,” Haley retorted. “For example--” she reached over the ice cream stand and snatched Alex’s letter from his hand. 

> _Hey dude,_
> 
> ~~Wanted to let you know~~ _I think you’re pretty cool._
> 
> _Alex_

Haley mouthed the words to herself before looking up at him. “You can see how this makes no sense, right?”

A flush settled in his cheeks. “I wasn’t finished…”

“You’ve had a week to write it.”

“At least I wrote it myself. Besides, relationships aren’t supposed to be this complicated!”

“It’s not a relationship, and it’s not ‘complicated,’ you’re just supposed to tell him how you feel.”

“That’s what I did.”

“No, you said what you think. What do you feel?”

He furrowed his brow. She scrutinized his face, searching for a microscopic twitch that would indicate the content of his mind. “I dunno,” he said, eventually. “I just feel weird.”

“Oh my God. You’re like, a caveman when it comes to emotions.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were supposed to be helping me out, not making fun of me the whole time.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed, uncontrollably. He rolled his eyes.

“Um… Mister Alex?”

Haley jumped; a boy and girl had appeared at her side as though by conjuration, barely tall enough to peek into the windows of the ice cream stand. Alex gave a wide grin. “Vincent, buddy!”

Vincent and Jas exchanged glances. “Miss Penny said we can have one ice cream, but ONLY one,” Jas explained with gravity. “And the last time she said that we could have ice cream, Vincent said that he wasn’t going to have any of mine but he still had some of mine anyway, even though he had his own--”

“--That’s not true! It’s not true, Mister Alex, Jas said that she didn’t want any of her caramel ice cream because it was gross and had too much salt in it so I just--”

“--but I wanted to give it to Miss Penny because my Auntie told me that smart people like stuff that tastes gross!”

Haley, eyes darting between the two of them, looked on in abject horror as they bickered. Alex, acting quickly, emerged from behind the stand with two cones in hand, crouching down to get to eye level with the both of them. “Heeey! Hey, it’s all cool guys, I believe both of you.”

Jas frowned. “He started it,” she mumbled, taking one of the cones from Alex. Vincent, also obviously dissatisfied, reluctantly took the other cone.

Alex spent several minutes soothing both of their tempers with a surprisingly effective upsell of cotton candy ice cream; by the time Penny finally arrived, the two were happily preoccupied licking their respective scoops of rosy sugar. 

“I’m so sorry about that,” Penny intoned breathlessly as though it were the hundredth time she had said it today. “They always seem to be a mile ahead of me.”

“You should give yourself a break. You tutor them, like, every day,” Haley said with a characteristic melange of sympathy and judgment.

Penny shrugged. “They can be a handful, but it’s a nice distraction.” She looked to Alex. “I must admit, you seem to have a way with them.”

Alex chuckled. “I’m great with kids! Anytime you need babysitting, let me know.”

“Yes. You know they’re not mine, right?”

“Uh, y-yeah, of course.”

Suddenly, a spark appeared in Haley’s eyes. “Penny! What was that thing you were showing me? That you sometimes do with the kids?”

“Um… oh, you mean the chart. Well, I don’t really--”

“The chart! Yeah! Do you still have it with you?”

Penny reached into her canvas side bag, taking a moment to rummage through any number of coloring pencils, books, and tupperwear containers before procuring a small cardboard square. She handed it to Haley, who immediately gave it to Alex. It depicted a two by three grid of cartoon farm animals. Each sported a different, exaggerated expression, and were labeled: HAPPY; SAD; SCARED; DISGUSTED; EXCITED; ANGRY.

Alex scrunched his face up and looked up at Haley. “Oh, come on.”

“I actually don’t use it much anymore,” Penny explained. “Jas and Vincent are on more complicated emotions these days.”

Haley smirked. “I’ll bet they are. Can we keep it?”

“Um. Yes, I suppose.” 

Penny wished them goodbye, then ushered Jas and Vincent away. As soon as they were out of earshot, Haley shot Alex a mischievous smile and said, with aplomb, “This is going to help SO much.”

“Fuck you, Hales, I don’t need a...” He glanced at the card. “...crying horse to tell me when I’m sad.”

“You’re gonna need something if the best way you can describe your feelings is, ‘weird.’”

Alex, of course, felt more than ‘weird.’ He felt that so-common-now churning in body, as though his heart were spinning raw grains of sugar into fine threads, an effervescent cloud that sparkled in and out with his breath. He felt anticipation in his arms and legs, a need to go outside and walk at midnight, a fidget while sitting at the dinner table that his grandparents could not restrain themselves from pointing out (his grandfather, not so politely). Sometimes, he would laugh for no reason; at other times, he would curse himself. These feelings did not have faces or barn animals to represent them. They were, more than anything, disorganized.

And what better way to organize than to write it down? He had thought a letter would be ideal: not impersonal, but not in person, and he would have precious time to compose the message. This would turn out to be time wasted, hours spent sitting down holding pen to paper, standing up to pace his room, sitting down again to gaze, forlornly, at the green box, standing up again to talk with Dusty. No matter how much he ruminated, words, simply, would not come. What did come were nothing more than ephemera: fleeting visions of the Farmer’s smile; the deep smell of honey; pangs of dread that had no source. These, he realized, were not the things of letters.

So, he remained stuck. But it was by no means a bad place to be stuck. He restarted his jogging, three times a week as usual, and this season he had noticed that the Farm, once ragged and decrepit, had changed. Gone were the rocks and branches haphazardly strewn across the land; overgrown elms and maples had been tamed into rows; and it appeared that Robin had swooped in and out in the Spring, with her otherworldly skill expanding the size of the farmhouse overnight. Out of immaculate rows of soil writhed tangled coils of vines and bushes: melons swollen with pink against a sea of blueberries evoked countless suns setting in a speckled sky. But it was nothing compared to the smell. To Alex, it was intoxicating. Sweet juices mixed with the raw, strong bite of overturned earth, an undercurrent of salt wafting from his own sweat, and from the Farmer’s, who remarked on the heat every time Alex visited. 

“I’m just glad I have AC now,” he said of Robin’s expansion. “I’m way more productive if I’ve gotten sleep overnight, you know?”

Alex, standing in the frame of the front door, repositioned the melon the Farmer had gifted him in his arms. “Yeah. You’ve gotten pretty good at this.” 

“Good at what?”

“Farming, dude!” He patted the melon, a deep echo belying the promise of tender, scrumptious flesh.

“Oh! I don’t know about that.” The Farmer said it with a veneer of surprise that did nothing to hide his pride. “I at least know what crops to grow now, so that helps a lot.”

“Nah, it’s more than that. You’re getting stronger, faster, better. You’ve been in training--” Alex flexed one of his arms in demonstration. “--and now you get to enjoy the benefits!”

The Farmer suppressed a chuckle. “I guess you’re right: I am less tired these days. Maybe one day I’ll be able to put on a pound of muscle.”

“Don’t worry about that, man. I like how you look.” 

A pause. Alex held his breath, waiting for the Farmer to respond. A quizzical shadow fluttered over his eyes, but his smile otherwise did not fade. “Alex, are you--” but then, the Farmer stopped himself.

“Yeah?”

“Um, no, it’s nothing.” The Farmer conspicuously avoided Alex’s eyes, suddenly shuffling back to the kitchen. “Do you want some beets to take to Evelyn?”

Alex’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “Yeah, dude, she loves beets,” he shouted after him. 

Although he had few skills that he felt completely assured of, before that season he had prided himself as being gifted in seduction. It was a talent that seemed to come naturally to him, perhaps bundled with his practiced bravado and performed masculinity, or with the power implicit in his status as a high school athlete. And he had repeated it so often that a template lived in his head:

Step One: Signal interest, but stay distant. Smiles in passing, winks when the group is talking, to inform them that they, and only they, are in on it. Say their name when they don’t realize you know it. Never have a full conversation. He and the Farmer were far past this point, yet Alex realized that he had somehow bypassed this step straight into--

Step Two: Friendship (but not really). There is a type of friendship characterized by not-very-funny jokes eliciting disproportionate laughter. It is not as though the joker does not wish to make the other laugh, or that the laugher does not find the joker amusing, but neither is genuinely powered by humor or commonality; it is powered by an altogether different electricity, because the friendship is in fact a proxy. It is not a reward in itself, but an agreed upon predecessor for something sweeter. Here was the beginning of certain wires being crossed, for Alex and the Farmer were actually friends. Mid run one morning, the image of a wide-eyed chicken from Penny’s board flashed into his head and he understood that being friends with the Farmer scared him. After all, what is the mirror of gain?

Step Three: Sexual chemistry. One evening Alex remembered that the Internet was a bountiful resource for the curious and inexperienced. And while on lonely, frustrated nights he had a bevy of bookmarked links to which he had returned to time and again, he realized that he need not stay in the dark about his own curiosity. The first videos he watched were unappealing; the men reminded him too much of his friends from high school, and the sex looked… painful. But he found one video that was 24 minutes and 11 seconds long. The first five minutes was talking, nervous questions, furtive glances and giggles as they sat on the bed. One was broad and muscular, the other tall and lanky. The two kissed, cautiously; the two stripped each other, gently; one gasped at the sensation of tongue on his skin, one moaned as hands caressed his chest; the two screamed, in climax, together. 

It was enrapturing, and it did the job. He saved the video, but would not watch it again. It had somehow felt like an invasion of privacy. 

Step Four: Go for the goal. Except, he realized with dread, the goal posts had changed. The template, which had fit so neatly in every situation before this, was now as applicable as a star chart in the midday. 

So, he threw out the template with the scratched out letters, realizing that no amount of flirts or innuendos would do him good. A navigator without a map, an actor without a script, he drifted about, happily, fearfully, filled with sparkling breath.

On the days that Alex did not go jogging, the Farmer would meet him in town; apparently no longer burdened by endless days spent toiling in the fields, he would make regular rounds, delivering a steady bounty of flowers and groceries either to Pierre or to whoever he ran into on the road. Whether it was at the ice cream stand, beneath the oak tree, or at Dusty’s pen, Alex would invariably be his last stop. 

There was one day ( _that_ day) that was different.

“It’s like recharging,” the Farmer explained, as they both stared listlessly at Dusty, asleep in his doghouse. The sun was still high in the sky, and the two had to squint to keep the light from their eyes. “I don’t do great with strangers, and it’s nice to debrief with a friend, you know?”

Alex blushed at the statement. “I hear you, dude.” He looked over at his company. “You’re not really a stranger anymore, though. Half of Pelican Town likes you, and the other half just hasn’t met you.”

He furrowed his brow. “I don’t know about that. Shane still gives me the stink eye.”

“He’s a dick to everyone.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” The Farmer reached into his bag and procured two glass jars filled with a golden brew. He handed one to Alex. “You gotta try it--it’s not half bad!”

Alex removed the lid to sniff the concoction inside. “Pale ale?”

“It’s my first time making it. As soon as I knew it wasn’t a complete disaster, I knew I had to give you a taste.” 

The joy in his voice and eyes was powerful enough to stop Alex from expressing his distaste for hoppy beer. “This is cool,” he said. “Thanks.” They clinked their glasses, then sipped. They were quiet for a while, a sleepy energy permeating the air. Eventually, Alex broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

The Farmer looked over at him. “Of course.”

“How did you...” He thought of the frightened chicken from Penny’s board again: surprisingly effective. He took a large sip of ale and swallowed. “...how did you know you were gay?”

The Farmer sighed. “Daniel Chen, in 7th grade.” There was a wistful, half-joking smile in the curve of his lips. “It didn’t work out.”

“Hm. Sounds like he was too clingy.”

A fully formed laugh from the Farmer. “As if! He was how I learned never to fall for a straight guy.” He gave a sideways glance to Alex. “We all learn that lesson. The hard way.”

Alex took another sip. At that moment he could think of several other rules of who not to fall for. “His loss, dude,” he commented.

“Thanks.” The Farmer looked forward, gaze still focused on Dusty, fast asleep. “Um, why do you ask?”

“I guess I just... never really thought about it.” Alex gripped his cup tighter. “For myself, I mean. I-I mean, I like girls! I meant that I never really thought about the fact that I was straight.”

The Farmer blinked. “Are you coming out as straight to me?”

“No.” He coughed on his ale. “Or, uh, yes.”

“It's okay, no need to feel awkward about it. You know, some of my best friends are straight.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, you! That’s it, though.”

"But, what if I... what if I weren't, though?"

The Farmer cocked his head. "Weren't straight?"

"Yeah." Alex's voice shrunk, as though dried in the heat of the sun.

"Well, then, you wouldn't be straight. That's it. You'd still be you, and you're awesome." He flashed a smile. "But you would get the membership card and an invite to all the conferences." 

He wanted to laugh at his joke, but didn’t. "Y-yeah. For sure." 

Perhaps belatedly realizing that there was less humor in Alex's question than he had initially understood, the Farmer changed his tone. "You wouldn't be alone, Alex. That's what I was always afraid of, when I first came out... I was terrified of it. But I--"

He didn't get a chance to finish his thought. Alex, abruptly, returned the glass back to the Farmer. “Sorry, dude. I got to go. I’ll see you later?”

“Oh." The Farmer cleared his throat. "Um, of course. I'll see you.” 

He turned. He walked away, the Farmer watching as he disappeared into the horizon. Following that conversation to its end seemed to be an impossibility, a confrontation that he simply would not be (and perhaps would never really be) ready for. So he went to the beach. (It was that day). His mind swirled like sea foam caught in tide pools, all bubbling turmoil encased in stone. Looking about himself, he confirmed that he was alone: him, the ocean, the sand, the sun, alone, alone, alone. And so he sat, and he listened.

He was sure that the song in his mother’s music box had lyrics. Not that it was written as such, but that it is possible for the heart to fill in the gaps between wordless stanzas. That contained within the twinkling notes were endless constellations of stories: heroes, queens, shadowy monsters, oceans, starry nights, mothers holding their sons tight. Smells of powdered sugar and ice cream cake. Last words that he could not remember. Promises that had never been made.

“Alex?” He looked up. The Farmer stood above him. “Are you okay?”

Alex wiped his face as dread settled into his gut. “...You saw me crying.” The Farmer nodded. Alex cursed under his breath, eyes still watering, and looked ahead to the ocean. He felt the shifting of sand to his right as the Farmer sat next to him. Alex swallowed, took a deep breath, before going on. “It was today, twelve years ago, that my mom died. I still remember her. She’d... she’d make salted radish sandwiches for lunch, and toss the gridball to me in the backyard. She took good care of me, but--” To his dismay, another tear. “--but I never really said ‘thanks.’ And now she’s gone. Forever.” He revealed the music box, which had been nested underneath his jacket. “This is the only thing I have left of her. I listen to it every year... it’s, uh... it’s pretty pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic, Alex.”

“How can you say that? I’m--” Alex sniffled. “--You don't know what I've done! I’m always running away! It’s the only thing I’ve been good at since she died!”

“Hey--”

“I’ve been nothing but a disappointment. Not strong enough to achieve my dreams, or to even admit to myself who I really am, or what I really want, or... or any of it. I’m just stupid. Stupid a-and weak, and most of all a fucking coward.” Silence between the two of them, consumed in the sounds of the sea, the occasional trumpet of a seagull. Again, he wiped his face, furiously. “Dammit...”

And then, suddenly, a warmth on his hand. He looked down; it was the Farmer’s hand, laid gently on his own. Alex was confident, in retrospect, that his heart had stopped. He looked up to meet eyes with him. “You’re not alone,” the Farmer said. “It’s okay to run away. It’s okay to be scared. It doesn’t matter, Alex. You're my best friend, and I’ll be here.”

It was as though a switch had flipped. His doubt, his dread, his fear suddenly exploded inside of him, and the maelstrom found its way to his limbs, his chest, and his head. His pulse raced. His breath caught. He would later be unable to pinpoint a single thought or even an emotion: only an impulse that he was driven, inexorably, to act on. There would be no running away this time. He leaned in, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Happy belated Valentine's day, for those who celebrate it... my update's been rather delayed, and it's because I've been super busy moving into a new place! Fun, but unfortunately with less writing/video gaming...
> 
> And wow, finally they kiss! I hope you don't think it happened too soon... But, what happens next?? Wait and see I suppose! Thanks as always for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing! :)


	9. Summer Year 2 (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kiss

There are many things that can be said about the ocean, all of which are true though none of which are new or particularly insightful. Poets and sailors remark on its gem tones, its terror, its mystery, things that have been spoken and repeated and written and sung again and again with great wonder, belted over towering cliffs, whispered between lovers. But that sort of thing is expected to happen to a place when it becomes consecrated with multiple destinies: cradle, graveyard, symphony, shrine. 

The ocean was where Alex had chosen to release his mother’s ashes on a windless day ten years ago. He had thought that he would keep them forever, that her urn would be a guardian angel perched on his bookshelf to watch over him in perpetuity. He discovered the opposite effect. The urn became a totem of his emptiness, a reminder that, in reality, there were no such things as angels. So Alex spent a year deciding where he would release the ashes. He considered his old house, though remembered how often his mother would speak, starry-eyed, about the two of them moving away to someplace grander; he could not doom her to the same yard still littered with weeds and his father’s used cigarettes. He wondered if the stadium at Zuzu City would allow ashes to be scattered, though decided against inquiring, as gridball was a celebration of vitality, not the enervation of grief. He tried to think of places that she always wanted to go, sights she wanted to see, facts that a child would never ask about their mother. He realized, with frustration, that he did not know.

“Clara used to swim in the sea,” his grandma reminisced. She had to meditate on her cup of tea for several minutes before answering Alex’s question. “When she was about your age, that’s all she would ask to do: ‘Momma, please, I wanna meet a mermaid!’” She laughed, shook her head. “To be frank, I’ve never liked the beach much... too smelly. I would never go more than knee deep, but, your mother--well, I used to call her my little dolphin, that’s how good a swimmer she was. I suppose that’s where you get it from.”

And so it would be to the sea that she returned. He anticipated that the ashes would pour out like a river of sand. Instead they flitted about in a cloud, seeming to disappear into the air before they even hit the water. Feeling somehow dissatisfied, he dropped the simple brass urn as well, watched it unceremoniously splash, then tumble into a pocket of deep blue. To this day he imagines it, half sticking out of sand, crowned with wreaths of rainbow moss and coral. 

The ocean was witness: that was Alex’s personal, trite observation. The ocean took tributes, consumed his tears in its swirling tresses, snatched pieces of his breath with every spray of sea foam. And in so doing a strange and old magic had taken place. Now, the ocean saw all things he wanted to hide, knew all things he did not want to admit. And it saw him, that summer, kiss the Farmer.

When Alex opened his eyes, he recalled being shocked not by the kiss but by his proximity to the Farmer’s face, which allowed him to discern, precisely, every detail of his visage: his eyes, widened, his lips, just slightly chapped, his skin, a landscape carved out of stone. Alex did not speak for some time. His head felt grainy, as though it were filled with sand within which needles of dread began to crystallize. Why was he so quiet? Why did he not smile, or laugh, or for the love of Yoba, say anything? How could he take this back? What was he thinking? What had _he_ been thinking? He could not bear to look into his eyes, so for some reason he found himself focusing on a tiny scar on the Farmer’s left temple, a pigmented spot smaller than a fingernail. And for a long, wordless moment, Alex’s world became that spot on the Farmer’s skin.

“Oh,” was all the Farmer said. It was a dreadful thing to say, as the Farmer would later relate, and when he heard it Alex could feel a chill wind rush into his throat, choking out a reply. So he continued to be silent. The Farmer swallowed. And, again, he said, _“Oh.”_

“Why do you keep saying that?” Alex finally managed to croak.

“It’s, uh...” The Farmer’s shoulders rose and his fingers gripped the sand below him, as though he were sinking into himself. “...did I... force you to do that?”

“No! No way dude, I wanted to!” Finally, their gazes locked. Shock ignited behind the Farmer’s eyes, and Alex realized what he had said. “I always wanted to.”

The Farmer blinked. “Oh.”

“Dude!”

“Sorry! I’m not used to things like this happening.” He sighed. “To think, I’d just come to terms with having another crush on a straight guy.”

“You have a crush on me?” 

The Farmer looked at him through the sides of his eyes, incredulous. “Seriously? Wasn’t it obvious?”

Alex blushed. “No...”

Now, finally, came the laugh from the Farmer. It was quieter, more stifled, almost forlorn compared to his usual guffaw, but its familiarity rekindled a warmth within him, brought an easy smile to his lips. “I mean... I figured you already thought everyone was in love with you. I didn’t want to make your head any bigger than it already is, you know?”

“Shut up,” he chuckled. "Was it, uh. Okay? That I did that?"

" _Yeah._ It was definitely okay," The Farmer said, eagerly. 

"R-really? You were just kinda quiet, that's all," Alex murmured. He surprised himself with his timidity, as though his boldness had burned itself out with the kiss, left him filled with smoldering ash. 

The Farmer smirked. "If it helps, you're a great kisser."

“Thanks. I, uh... I feel the same way. About you, I mean. N-not about the kissing! Although I did really like kissing you, I meant to say that I... I like--” He gulped. He shifted in place. He balled his fists, wiped his face. He grunted. “Urgh... why is this so hard to say?”

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to!” He said it so emphatically that he had to restrain himself from jumping to his feet. “I want to tell you a whole fucking _book_ dude! This last year has been so confusing... because maybe I did know, but I didn’t want to know, you know? A-a-and I have no idea what to do, or how to talk about it, or anything, and I tried to write you a letter but I sucked at it just like I suck at doing anything right, like when I got mad at you last Winter when you were just trying to be nice, o-or, or, when I kept denying that I ever thought of you as being more than my friend. All the time I spent trying to figure out why I kept wanting to see you, and talk to you, and make you laugh, and hug you, and _kiss_ you, and--” he stopped himself: he was heaving. “--holy shit, man. Shit.” After a moment to catch his breath, he continued. His voice, now soft, seemed to trickle and tremble, like so many ripples colliding on the surface of a pond. "I didn't want to say it like this... I didn't want you to _see_ me like this. I had these fucking awesome plans of how I was going to confess to you. Like hot air balloons and shit. And instead you're seeing me crying like a baby and... I wouldn't blame you if you changed your mind about me. And honestly, the thought of that _terrifies_ me because you're my best friend in this town. And I can't think of what I'd do if you stopped being my friend."

The Farmer, who had been motionless while listening, swept forward and wrapped his arms around his waist. Alex flinched until he felt, revived by the warmth of the Farmer's touch, a wisp of desire in his flesh. So he allowed himself, against every reflex in his body, to relax into his embrace, to maneuver his own arms around the Farmer’s narrow shoulders and to hold his head against the musculature of his chest, to let his breathing match the slow and steady cadence of the Farmer’s, of the ocean. He suppressed the urge to cry again. 

His face still pressed into Alex, the Farmer whispered something. Alex nodded even though he did not understand, too mortified to admit that the sound of his voice had been swallowed whole by the furious crashing of waves. Years later, Alex would ask what he had said; naturally, the Farmer would not remember. But these details were inconsequential. Alex would cherish the rest of that moment as its own constellation, one made up of shared touch, of entwined scents of deodorant and honey, of the mysterious sensation of words being whispered into his chest, their content lost to the sea. 

"So... are we still friends?" Alex, at one point, willed himself to ask.

The Farmer looked up at his face and, befuddled, burst into laughter. "Yes, Alex! We are still, definitely, friends!"

Alex would not recall the rest of that day, other than that he, desperately, made the Farmer swear silence to witnessing his crying. He walked him home that evening, the sky dripping with swirls of orange and indigo, and their hands brushed but did not grasp each other, despite the longing that wove its way between their fingertips. They grinned at each other in the doorway of the Farm, and to his surprise, the Farmer planted a quick peck on Alex’s lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. It was difficult for him to parse out whether it was a question or a statement. There both was an apprehension and an excitement in the timbre of his voice that made Alex think of the end of summer. 

“See you tomorrow,” Alex repeated, firmly. He buried his hands in his jacket and walked back to the road, and when he was halfway home, streetlamps illuminating themselves in the wake of night, he realized with frustration that he never said those words: "I like you." And yet, for once, he did not feel a need to punish himself. In fact, he felt that maybe something had turned out right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks!
> 
> Yikes, have I been late with the update--and it's rather short, so I'm sorry about that! Thanks for tuning in regardless :)
> 
> And yes, a first kiss is a big deal, but that's really far from the end-all-be-all of Alex's growth or their relationship, right?? There will still be chapters to come, that's for sure! I know I don't usually do two parts of one season, but really, it was an important enough moment that I felt like a little more needed to be added on... so much for me having consistent chapter themes, haha.
> 
> Thank you again for all your kudos and comments! It means so much to know that you are enjoying this story! Look for another update in the next month!


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